


where there is doubt, faith

by radiophile



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gunplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/pseuds/radiophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Porthos had Aramis at gunpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. first impressions

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for warnings.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to [Camille](http://leighway.tumblr.com), who wrote [these tags](http://leighway.tumblr.com/post/77822472759) and made it impossible for me not to write this, and [Cecilia](http://psikeval.tumblr.com), who not only held my hand throughout the entire process but also beta'd this when it was done.

There is a lamp on in the new recruit's room by the time Aramis makes it back to the barracks. Normally, this wouldn't be a detail worth noting, but it's well past the hour for most respectable men to be awake. Aramis neatly illustrates this fact, returning from his current mistress' bedroom with his clothes in disarray, collar hanging wide open to bare the top of his chest to the cool night air.

The flickering light shines like a beacon in the darkness, impossible to miss. The new recruit -- Porthos, that was his name -- is staying in a room nearly adjacent to Aramis' own, leaving him no choice but to walk right towards it and calling to mind the irresistible image of a moth being drawn to flame.

As he takes the stairs up to their lodgings, he notices a shadow move behind the window's draping. Not only is Porthos awake, then, but moving about. Curiosity gets the better of him, and Aramis decides to stop by Porthos' room before turning in for the night. Not all of the musketeers choose to sleep in the rooms provided by the garrison and make arrangements elsewhere, provided they can afford to. But if he and Porthos are to be neighbours as well as fellow soldiers, it can't hurt to be friendly.

Before Aramis has time to think better of it, he knocks lightly on Porthos' door. The shadow behind the curtain stills, then swiftly moves out of sight, away from the door rather than towards it. Unsettled, Aramis knocks again, but there is no answer. Idle curiosity quickly gives way to real concern; what if the shadow doesn't belong to Porthos at all? The musketeers have enemies, although until this moment, Aramis would never have thought any were reckless enough to sneak into their garrison in the dead of night. That possibility suddenly seems all too likely, and after his third round of knocking goes unanswered, Aramis decides to act.

He has just enough forethought to try the handle to confirm the door is locked before rearing back and kicking it down. It flies open with a splintering crash, and in the next instant Aramis finds himself slammed hard against a wall, an arm pressed down on his throat like an iron bar and a pistol aimed inches from his face.

To Porthos' credit, he recognizes Aramis almost immediately and releases him at once, leaping back with a curse.

"What the bleeding hell do you think you're doing?" he sputters. He looks mortified as he lowers the gun, uncocking it with another muttered swear. "I was that close to blowing your head off!"

"That would have been unfortunate," Aramis manages to gasp, still winded from the impact. He remains leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath. He is far from small, easily a good half a head taller than average, but Porthos has the clear advantage in both height and weight. Aramis feels like he has just been kicked by a horse.

"Unfortunate," Porthos echoes. There is a strained quality to his voice, as though he's on the verge of laughter. Or screaming.

Aramis bites back the retort he wants to make ( _Yes, I'm rather attached to it, you see_ ) and straightens up, clearing his throat. He steps away from the wall but keeps a respectful distance, taking off his hat to hold it over his chest, bowing his head slightly.

"I apologize," he says solemnly. "In my ignorance, I took your silence as a sign that you were in danger, rather than the dismissal it was obviously meant to be. I can only beg your forgiveness."

"My forgive--" Porthos starts, visibly taken aback. He narrows his eyes. "Are you having a laugh?"

"I assure you, I am not."

"Did they put you up to this?" Porthos demands. "This your idea of a joke?"

Aramis has no idea who "they" might be, but the implication is enough for him to feel a surge of anger. Porthos may be their newest member, having arrived less than a fortnight ago, but he is a musketeer, same as any of them. The last place he should feel unsafe is here, among their ranks.

"Has anyone here been giving you trouble?" Aramis asks, taking care to keep his voice neutral.

"Right," Porthos snorts, rolling his eyes. "Now I know you're joking, or just incredibly stupid."

"Well, I did just break down your door for no good reason," Aramis points out mildly. He offers Porthos a smile, and is gratified to see it returned, if somewhat sarcastically. "Speaking of which, allow me--" He hangs his hat off his sword hilt and turns to assess the damage.

"Oh, leave it," Porthos protests weakly.

Aramis waves him off over his shoulder and runs his fingers over the broken lock and splintered wood, wincing. "It'll be a quick fix, but the lock's useless until then," he says, gently pushing the door shut. To his relief, it closes with only a minimal bit of resistance; the hinges, at least, are undamaged.

"How much will it cost me?" Porthos asks, sounding weary.

Aramis whirls around to look at him, affronted. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "You're not paying for it. I'll speak with the blacksmith in the morning."

Porthos seems surprised by this, but fortunately, he doesn't attempt to argue. He nods curtly and walks back to his bed, stowing his pistol under the pillow where it apparently belongs.

Unable to help himself, Aramis asks, "Were you expecting anyone in particular?"

Porthos levels a wry look at him as he replies, "Let's just say, where I grew up? You don't live long if you sleep without a weapon in easy reach."

At those words, it all clicks into place, and Aramis wonders how he could have been such a fool. He has heard some of the rumors circulating amongst the musketeers, after all, even if he had never paid much attention to them. The one time Aramis had asked Tréville about their new recruit, the captain had been more blunt than usual, cutting their conversation short and disappearing into his office before Aramis realized none of his questions had been answered.

Not everyone among the musketeers come from nobility or wealth -- Aramis stands as living proof of the fact. But none of them come from a place where sleeping with a loaded pistol is all that ensures you will wake up again.

Aramis makes a mental note to find out who, exactly, is responsible for causing Porthos to cling to this habit.

"What did you want, then?" Porthos asks. Direct, but not unkind, considering the circumstances.

"You mean before I thought you were in mortal peril and broke into your room?" Aramis laughs, and is pleased to see a smile flicker across Porthos' features at that. He runs a hand through his hair and goes on, "I saw the light on and someone moving inside. Not many are awake at this hour, and I was only curious."

Porthos sits down heavily at the edge of his bed, bootheels scraping the floorboards as he settles himself. "Thought I was up to something, did you?"

Aramis does not care for the bitterness in Porthos' voice, but knows it is not aimed at him. He finds that he likes it even less, for that.

"Well, yes, of course. Only scoundrels who are up to wicked things are awake at this hour." He punctuates this with a guileless smile, not unlike the kind he uses to charm his way past barred gates and into lavishly furnished bedrooms.

Porthos looks at him for a few long seconds, then bursts into laughter.

The transformation is astonishing, and for a moment Aramis can only stare. Just a few seconds ago, he would never have been able to imagine Porthos as anything but stern and slightly intimidating. But right now, the man looks impossibly young, his handsome face creased with mirth, his broad body rocking back with the force of it. Aramis couldn't have kept a straight face if his life depended on it, his shoulders shaking with stifled laughter as he slumps heavily against the wall for support.

It isn't until some time later that Aramis gathers enough breath to ask, "Drink?"

"You offering or asking?" Porthos rejoins.

"I've intruded upon your hospitality enough for one night, I should think," Aramis says briskly. "I have a bottle of passable Bordeaux in my quarters. I can fetch it for us or you are welcome to come over, as you like."

Porthos considers this for a while, then asks, "You have a deck of cards at your place?"

Aramis smiles. "As it happens, I do."


	2. revelations under duress

"It won't be loaded," Porthos assures him, for the fifth time in as many hours. "There'll be enough gunpowder to make a convincing flash-bang if need be, but--"

"No ball, yes, I know," Aramis finishes, bemused. "You needn't remind me so often. It's not as though you plan to fire it at me, regardless." Porthos doesn't seem any more at ease, so he continues, "And even if you did, I've seen the way you shoot. Odds are good I'll be perfectly unharmed."

"Oi!" Porthos protests, gripping Aramis by the scruff of the neck and knocking off his hat in the process.

Aramis twists free of the hold easily, catching his hat with one hand; Porthos hadn't grabbed him with any real intent, and Aramis has sparred with the man enough times to easily step just out of his reach. After three years of living and fighting side by side, Porthos' movements are as familiar to Aramis as his own. He straightens up and makes a show of dusting himself off before donning his hat again, smiling up at Porthos from beneath its brim. Porthos manages to keep a straight face for all of two seconds before breaking, aiming a half-hearted kick at Aramis' shins that misses by a mile as he laughs.

"I'll let you get away with that, just this once," Porthos says, the severity of his warning undermined somewhat by his grin. "Only 'cause it's understandable for you to be nervous about this."

"Nervous? What reason could I possibly have to be nervous?" Aramis asks. "Granted, approaching mercenary thugs and contract killers unarmed and bound isn't at the top of my list of recreational activities, but I'm sure we'll have fun nevertheless."

He realizes a moment too late that this was precisely the wrong thing to say, and winces internally as the smile drops from Porthos' face. It's bad enough that Porthos nearly got himself court-martialed arguing with Tréville about this mission, the least Aramis could do is refrain from throwing fuel onto the fire.

"Aramis," Porthos says, all trace of levity gone.

"It will be fine," Aramis cuts in, leaning hard on the words. "It's a good plan, and even if it weren't our only hope to find whoever issued that order, it would be our best option. Besides, Athos and the others will be right at our backs, and I have you to protect me."

Invoking Athos' name is a calculated move on Aramis' part. Despite being fairly new to their ranks, having joined the musketeers less than six months ago, the man seems to inspire confidence in others. Porthos, in particular, has begun to look to Athos as a leader, and he is not the only one. Certainly the man is an expert swordsman and a brilliant tactician, and in matters of duty and service, Aramis finds no fault in him. But in regards to Athos' character, Aramis privately withholds his judgement. Most nights, Athos can be found in a dark corner of the nearest tavern, drinking with the single-mindedness of a man who does so to forget. Aramis does not like the empty look in Athos' eye on those nights, nor the uncomfortable reminder of how close he came to falling into the same pit in the awful months following his return from Savoy.

"If anything should happen to you," Porthos starts. He seems unable to finish the thought, his expression stricken at the contemplation of those unspoken words.

Aramis quickly steps closer and claps a hand to Porthos' shoulder, squeezing tight for reassurance -- as much for himself as for Porthos, he is willing to admit. It is a pale substitute for what Aramis really wants to do, but they are in the middle of the garrison in broad daylight, soldiers and servants milling around them. None of them would think twice if they saw Aramis embrace Porthos; it is nothing untoward for a musketeer to comfort his fellow brother, and everyone knows the two share a close bond, even if they don't know just how close. But for Aramis to wrap his arms around Porthos now, with the latter looking as if any harm that fell on Aramis would wound him twice as much, feels too much like crossing the line they have drawn for themselves.

"You won't let anything happen to me," Aramis says, and is surprised by the strength of his own conviction. "If it were you in my place, and I the one to lead you in, would you doubt me?"

"Never," Porthos says forcefully. He sounds almost angry at the suggestion.

"There you are then," Aramis says. He gives Porthos' shoulder another squeeze and smiles brightly.

Porthos gives him a look that's a mixture of sullen and sheepish, but nods decisively. "Alright. Let's just go over it one more time."

\---

The plan is simple enough: Porthos is to assume the role of Gaspard Dubois, a hired blade known by name and reputation within criminal circles, but not by appearance. The real Dubois is currently residing in a prison cell, and will most likely do so for the rest of his life, the length of which depends entirely on whether or not his intelligence is accurate.

After several thwarted attacks on patrols and weeks of investigation, it came to light that someone in Paris has offered a substantial reward for anyone who can capture and deliver a musketeer. Dubois had been one of many to try to secure the bounty, but acted alone to avoid sharing the coin. His greed had been his downfall, as had his ill-advised choice of intended victim. Dubois had followed Athos to a tavern, no doubt expecting an easy job of subduing a single musketeer off-duty and too drunk to walk a straight line.

By the time guards arrived on the scene, Dubois had been lying at Athos' feet, begging for mercy while babbling all that he knew of whoever it was that incited half of Paris' underworld to hunt the musketeers. Unfortunately, it wasn't much; the order had been issued anonymously, and no cause or motive had been given along with it. Thus far, nobody had successfully brought in a musketeer to collect their reward, but Dubois had a contact who, he assured Athos between bouts of pleading, would give a time and place to meet once a musketeer had been successfully apprehended.

It was clear that their best course of action was to send someone undercover, and Porthos readily volunteered for the mission. Nobody objected when he pointed out that, out of all of them, he was the most likely to be mistaken for a criminal. It was an ugly truth, but one they could use to their advantage. When Tréville assigned Aramis the role of playing the captured musketeer, however, Porthos suddenly had a change of heart. The ensuing argument was only broken off when Aramis and Athos bodily dragged Porthos away from the scene. Porthos only gave up the struggle when Athos remarked, with his usual curtness, that the outburst served no purpose other than ensuring someone else would be assigned with Aramis.

"The moment they see someone approach without a captive, they will know it is a ruse," Athos pointed out. "Tréville is right to send in two musketeers. It is up to you whether you will be one of them."

The idea of Aramis heading into danger without Porthos at his side was clearly out of the question, and Aramis was gratified to see his feelings reciprocated. Not that he had any doubts, of course, but it is always nice to be reminded. Aramis knows that had Tréville attempted to assign someone else to go with Porthos, he would have been the one to be dragged away.

\---

Dubois' contact had been reached in short order, and a meeting arranged within a matter of days. Their final message came with a map to an encampment in the forest, two miles outside the city. The plan is for Aramis and Porthos to enter the camp alone, while Athos and a small contingent of musketeers track them from a distance, listening for the pistol shot that will be their signal to rush forth.

They talk little as they make their way through the woods, Aramis' hands bound behind his back and Porthos' pistol aimed squarely between his shoulders. If there are any spies on the trail to the camp, they will only see a captive musketeer being led to his doom. What they will fail to notice is the dagger hidden in Aramis' boot, or the empty paper cartridge packed into the barrel.

Halfway there, Aramis can't help himself. He slows down until Porthos is nearly alongside him, tipping his head to catch Porthos' eye.

"You'll have to make it look convincing," he says in a low murmur, barely heard over the rustle of grass and leaves beneath their boots.

"You think I can't sell it?" Porthos asks, butting the pistol against Aramis' shoulder for emphasis.

"Mm, I think you'll have to do better than that," Aramis purrs.

"Keep moving," Porthos growls, loud enough for any would-be scout to hear. He grabs Aramis' bound hands and tugs, pulling them flush together for one heated second before urging Aramis forward a few stumbling steps. In a low voice, he asks, "Good enough?"

"You're enjoying this a little too much," Aramis whispers, far too breathless for such a minor exertion.

"Look to the rafter in your own eye," Porthos hisses.

"Are you quoting Scripture to me? Now, of all times?" Aramis demands, nearly forgetting to keep his voice down in his baffled amusement.

"I said _keep moving_ ," Porthos nearly shouts, shooting Aramis a warning glare. Under his breath, he mutters, "'Now of all times,' he says. Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

Aramis has to bite his tongue to keep himself from replying, because Porthos is right. They might appear to be alone, but they are still on duty, and Aramis' teasing was far from innocent. He settles for giving Porthos a fleeting smile, barely more than a quirk of the lips, but he knows Porthos sees it. They will continue this... discussion, but later.

After nearly half an hour of walking, they see a faint trail of smoke rising from the trees.

"You ready?" Porthos asks quietly.

Aramis dips his head in a stilted nod, and the two push forward.

He does not feel nervous, as he had joked to Porthos that morning. He is confident this will work, and eager for some excitement after so many months of attending court and playing bodyguard. If he is honest with himself, there is no small desire for revenge, too. Someone is targeting the musketeers, and they will be sorry for it soon enough.

\---

Aramis is a fool.

He is a proud, vain, sinful fool and he will accept whatever punishment the Lord sees fit to give him, and gladly, only--

"Please, please, God, no," he whispers, hands shaking as he tears strips off his sash.

There is so much blood, but he must not panic, he mustn't lose himself to the terror that threatens to seize his heart. He presses some of the fabric firmly against the stab wound in Porthos' side, trying to staunch the flow, but the blade had gone in so deep.

Aramis had taken too long in reloading, had not noticed the man rushing towards him until Porthos threw himself in his path. The man had pulled the sword free with an effort, and Aramis saw how much of it was stained red in the instant before he shot the man dead. With an effort, Aramis turns his thoughts away from that and focuses on what needs to be done now. He binds Porthos' wound tight and, without conscious thought, begins to pray.

"Angel of God, to whom His love commits me here, ever this day be at his side."

He hasn't prayed to his guardian angel since he was a child, but it comforts him to say the familiar words, altered only slightly to ask for Porthos' protection rather than his own. If Aramis' guardian has not already abandoned him long ago, he would forsake any future blessings in exchange for this one favour.

_Do not let him die. Do not let him die. Do not..._

Porthos draws in a shuddering breath, his body tensing beneath Aramis' hands, and with a groan, he opens his eyes. They're unfocused and bleary with pain, but they unerringly find Aramis' own.

"Aramis," is the only word he can manage.

"Thank God," Aramis breathes, and kisses him.

It is graceless and quick, a desperate crush of mouths that, in any other circumstance, would have embarrassed Aramis. But he hasn't a thought to spare towards his reputation as an accomplished lover, nor the fact that he just kissed Porthos in broad daylight, with half a dozen men within earshot. It was an unconscionable risk to take and broke every single one of their rules; Aramis knows there is no going back after this, that they will not be able to pretend this didn't happen. He does not care.

Porthos is alive, Porthos will stay alive for as long as Aramis is on this earth, if God has any mercy on his soul.

For a long moment, Porthos simply blinks up at him in growing surprise as awareness returns to him. But his expression softens as he takes in Aramis' face. "Did I worry you?" he teases, even as he winces with pain.

"I'm only concerned for the state of my clothes," Aramis retorts. "You've bled all over my best cloak."

Porthos grins, but quickly sobers as he cranes his head to look around. "The man who-- Is he--?"

"Dead," Aramis says flatly. "I'm just sorry I wasn't quick enough." He forestalls Porthos from speaking further and continues, "He's the only casualty. Athos and the others are arresting the ones left standing. None of our own are seriously injured, apart from you."

"I like to be special," Porthos says.

"Well, I certainly hope you're pleased by your great wit, as that's the last you'll be saying for a while," Aramis says. "No, I mean it, save your strength, Porthos. We're too far from the city to wait, I have to operate on that wound here."

The look Porthos gives him at that can only be described as a pout, but Aramis knows better than to say so aloud. He gives Porthos a light pat on the shoulder and a bracing smile, then turns to call out to the others to fetch a sewing kit and wine. He could sooner run over to get the supplies himself, but finds he is quite content to wait by Porthos' side.


	3. dead giveaway

Aramis always knows that it's Porthos.

It had started a year or so into their friendship, before they began sharing a bed but not long after Aramis realized he desired such a thing. They were on patrol, the hours dragging by with nothing even remotely noteworthy happening to pass the time. Porthos had left Aramis alone to go find a secluded spot to attend to pressing matters ("I told you to go before we left the garrison." "I didn't have to go then, did I?"), and was taking a long time in returning. Just as Aramis was starting to worry, he felt the unmistakable press of a pistol against the back of his head.

Aramis froze, waited a long moment, then said, "Hello, Porthos."

"Oh, come on!" Porthos exclaimed, sounding extremely put out. "How did you know?"

Laughing, Aramis turned around to enjoy the look on his friend's face. "My dear Porthos," he said, gloating just a little. "What sort of man would threaten someone with an uncocked weapon, unless he did not mean to shoot?" He had been conditioned to listen for it long ago, and even in the midst of a battlefield, the click still rings in Aramis' ears each time a gun is aimed at him.

Even so, Porthos never cocks his pistol, not when they play this game that becomes a regular occurrence between them. In nearly five years, Porthos has yet to trick Aramis once. Over time, it is not only the lack of noise that reveals him, but the way Porthos touches Aramis with his gun.

It's tender, how Porthos deliberately brings his pistol up to press gently against Aramis' lower back, the top of his spine, the curve of his jaw -- wherever pleases him on that occasion. Aramis, who knows all too well how unforgiving and hard the barrel of a gun can be, would know Porthos' anywhere. He never applies any force behind it, and the press of his pistol's muzzle has yet to feel anything like a threat.

The weapon is simply an extension of him, no more or less likely to wound Aramis than Porthos' hands.

Which is why Aramis does not start at the graze of cool steel against his throat, nudging right alongside his pulse. The rain had muffled the sound of approaching footsteps, but Aramis doesn't tense. He tips his head back in surrender, raises a hand to guide the barrel away with two fingers.

"Careful," he chides, "even you couldn't miss from there."

Porthos' rumbling laugh warms him against the chilling rain.


	4. raising the stakes

"Wait, wait!"

Aramis carefully raises his hands, the melon wobbling precariously for a moment as he reaches up to smooth down his moustache, giving the tips an extra twirl before holding his arms out again. He grins at Porthos, who laughs delightedly before kissing his pistol for luck, the way he always does when making this shot.

Athos leans over to murmur something to d'Artagnan, who does not look especially reassured by his words. This particular tradition takes some getting used to, Aramis supposes, and he wonders if Athos will admit to the boy that he had nearly been shocked into sobriety the first time he witnessed it.

Porthos cocks his pistol, and Aramis can hear it from across the garrison, drowning out the din of the party. He closes his eyes, and the crowd begins to count down.

As with so many ill-advised ventures in Aramis' life, this one started as a drunken bet.

\---

"No way you can make that shot," scoffs Bernard. He looks from the empty bottle balanced atop a hitching post to Porthos, standing no more than twenty yards away. The other musketeers gathered around him laugh in agreement, and Bernard goes on, "You're drunker than five of us put together, and even if you weren't--"

"Of course he can make it," Aramis cuts in, irritation flaring up despite having made similar jokes about Porthos' aim countless times.

Porthos looks over at Aramis and grins, raising a knowing eyebrow. Aramis shrugs, but feels more than justified in taking offence. He, at least, is a finer marksman. Bernard is no better than Porthos, and has no right.

"The man can barely see straight," Bernard crows, "you think he can shoot straight?"

"I do," Aramis says firmly.

"It's his birthday, maybe he'll get lucky," someone else calls out from the crowd.

"Nobody's that lucky," Bernard insists.

"You want a bet?" Aramis snaps.

He realizes his mistake a second later, when what seems like every man in the garrison takes him up on it. Aramis does not have nearly enough coin to make good on his dues if he should lose, but he refuses to back down. Porthos gives him increasingly worried looks as the bets start pouring in, and by the time it's all settled, Aramis has close to half a year's salary riding on him making the shot.

"You shouldn't have done that," Porthos hisses.

"I have complete faith in you," Aramis says, ignoring the ominous lurch of his stomach.

Porthos takes in several deep breaths, then raises his pistol to take aim.

The gunshot is deafening in the silence, but not too loud to hear the bottle burst in a shower of glass. Aramis lets out a crow of triumph, and turns to see Porthos beaming at him, roaring with laughter as he throws himself at Aramis in a rib-cracking hug.

"I'll be collecting my winnings by the end of the week," Aramis says happily, raising a cup of wine to the regiment at large. This will go a long way towards securing the apartment in Rue de Vaugirard he's had his eye on the past few months.

"I did all the work," Porthos points out good-naturedly, ruffling Aramis' hair.

"We'll split it evenly," Aramis assures him. He ducks out from under Porthos' arm and runs his fingers through his disheveled hair, ignoring the eyeroll it earns him.

"It was a fluke," Bernard grumbles. "He couldn't possibly make the shot twice."

"That wasn't the bet," Aramis says. He drains his cup in two gulps and sets it down, raising a hand to point at Bernard for emphasis. "But I can tell you for certain that he could."

"I'd pay you double if he did," Bernard says stubbornly.

Aramis, who is just as stubborn when sober and reckless on top of that when drunk, narrows his eyes. "Are you offering to double everyone else's bets, as well?"

"I'm sure the lads will go in on it," Bernard says, looking around for confirmation.

"Leave it, Aramis," Porthos groans.

Aramis whirls on him. "It's an easy shot, you can make it no matter the stakes," he declares hotly. "You know you can."

Porthos looks taken aback by the fervour of his words, but does not argue. He searches Aramis' face intently, and Aramis wonders if he is looking for a sliver of doubt. He won't find it.

"You haven't the funds to pay us all if he can't, anyway," Bernard jeers.

The absolute unfairness of Bernard changing the terms of their agreement and then acting as if Aramis is making empty claims -- it's too much for any man to bear. If Bernard weren't a fellow musketeer, Aramis would demand satisfaction in a duel. Instead, he marches over to the nearest table and picks up an untouched melon. Everyone falls quiet and looks on curiously as Aramis strides to one of the balcony pillars, a few paces closer than the bottle had been but nearly the same distance from Porthos.

"Right, then," Aramis says decisively, and places the melon on his head.

There is a moment of complete silence, then an explosion of noise as everyone begins talking at once.

"Are you mad?!" Bernard shouts above the clamour. "You'll die!"

"I'll bet you that I won't," Aramis calls back. "Not tonight, at least."

Aramis had expected Porthos to look shocked, nervous, or even angry. But when Aramis looks to Porthos, he finds the latter grinning, the way he does when he has a card up his sleeve and is about to lay down a winning hand.

 _That's right_ , Aramis thinks, smiling back. _You're not going to miss._

The other musketeers are still yelling out protests and exclamations, but Aramis can barely hear them. Every sense in his body is heightened and attuned to Porthos, standing thirty paces away and raising his freshly loaded pistol to his lips. He holds Aramis' gaze as he kisses the barrel of his gun, and Aramis closes his eyes.

If by some cruel chance Porthos should miss, Aramis is glad to have that as the last thing he sees.

\---

"--Three! Two! One!"

The melon explodes atop Aramis' head, drenching him in juice and shredded fruit. He does not so much as flinch, and opens his eyes to see Porthos laughing with wild abandon, his arms raised in triumph. Aramis feels his heart leap at the sight, as it always does. Brushing debris from his hair and shoulders, he makes his way over to them, stopping only to retrieve the bottle of wine he had been drinking from.

"How about we try a blindfold?" Porthos asks him.

The smile slips from Aramis' face as the words and its accompanying images fully sink in. He stares at Porthos for a long moment, painfully aware of Athos and d'Artagnan looking on in amusement. Then Porthos laughs again, clapping Aramis' shoulder heartily and breaking the tension.

"Don't look so frightened," Porthos chuckles. "I wouldn't toy with your life."

D'Artagnan makes a strangled noise at that, covering it up belatedly with an unconvincing cough. Athos favours the boy with a faint smile, an extravagant display of affection by his standards.

They rejoin the party, finishing up the last of the food and drink with the rest of the men. Aramis and Porthos are seated next to each other at a crowded table, pressed together in a steady line of contact from shoulder to thigh. Aramis waits until the others are all suitably distracted before leaning over to speak in Porthos' ear.

"You're on," he says in a low voice.

Porthos gives him a bemused look as he refills his cup. "What's this, now?"

"Next time, we'll use a blindfold."

Porthos chokes on a mouthful of wine and sets down his cup, coughing. "Aramis, I was only joking," he sputters. "It's mad enough that we do this at all, I wouldn't risk it."

"We'd use it on me, not on you," Aramis elaborates. He lowers his voice to a whisper and adds, "And I'm not talking about this."

There is a long pause, in which Porthos' gaze flicks down to Aramis' lips, then up again. "Sometimes I wonder if we're mad for doing that, too," he murmurs.

"Possibly," Aramis shrugs, and smiles serenely. "But when has that ever stopped us?"


	5. fire at will

There are moments when Aramis wonders if he is truly beyond redemption. It is not a pleasant thought, and not one he allows himself to dwell on often, but the doubt still lingers in his heart. He knows how the sisters in the convent would have instructed him, what the parish priest would have wanted him to do.

_Confess, repent, and sin no more._

The first step is the easiest, and still Aramis wouldn't know where to begin.

But even in his darkest moods, when Aramis lies awake haunted by the ghosts of twenty dead soldiers, each and every mistake he has ever made brought up in sharp relief -- even then, he cannot bring himself to regret what he has with Porthos. There is nothing depraved or unholy in loving someone like Porthos, of that, Aramis is sure. And to be loved by him in return is the closest to salvation Aramis will ever have in this life.

Such blasphemous thoughts whirl through his mind as he kneels on the hard floor of Porthos' apartment, his hands bound behind his back and a blindfold tied around his eyes. He is stripped down to his smallclothes, every inch of his bare skin tingling in the still air. Porthos moves closer, and Aramis can feel the slight tremor of his steps along the floorboards as much as he can hear the muffled sounds of his boots.

This time, Aramis does flinch at the touch of cold steel against his throat. It only takes an instant for him to recognize what it is, and another to relax. He had not expected it, but its presence does not alarm him.

"You know what this is," Porthos says quietly.

It isn't a question, but Aramis nods anyway.

"Is this alright?" Porthos asks.

Aramis nods again.

"You can speak, you know," Porthos says, sounding exasperated but fond.

"I told you to do whatever you wanted with me," Aramis says. "I meant it."

Porthos makes a low noise at that, but says nothing. He keeps the gun pressed to Aramis' throat for a long moment, then slowly draws it up, its muzzle dragging along the slope of Aramis' neck. It skims along Aramis' jawline, then slides up to caress his cheek before delicately tracing the hollow of his eye. Aramis tips his head up for Porthos' examination, suppressing a shiver as the pistol moves across his face to mirror its path on the other side.

Aramis loses track of time, loses himself to the soft, deliberate strokes of Porthos' gun against his bare skin. It travels down his body, across his collarbones and over his heart, dipping between his ribs and mapping out every scar. The metal turns blood warm from his skin, until it feels like a living thing, moving down further still to press against his hardening cock for one breathless second before skipping away.

It resumes its exploration of Aramis' face, tracing his profile from hairline to chin, then back again. Eventually it settles lightly over Aramis' lips, and it is simply instinct that moves him to part his lips and coax it into his mouth.

Porthos lets out a growl that sounds almost pained, but does not pull his gun away. Aramis takes it as encouragement, his heart pounding wildly against his chest as he surges up on his knees. The pistol slides deeper into his mouth, the acrid taste of gunpowder and oil filling his senses. Aramis does not know if the gun is loaded, but it wouldn't matter to him if it was. He sucks the barrel like he would Porthos' cock, laps at its muzzle with a hungry moan and seeks out the intricate engraving along its silver plating. He knows the designs by heart, having drawn them out himself when commissioning this pistol for Porthos.

With a desperate curse, Porthos yanks the gun away. There is a distant clatter from across the room -- not loaded, then; he would never throw aside a loaded gun -- and Aramis feels oddly bereft until he feels Porthos' hands close around him. Aramis is pulled to his feet and pressed to Porthos' body, warm and solid and living proof that miracles happen every day. For it is a miracle that Porthos survived, that he lives and breathes and is here to hold Aramis up as the latter's legs give out. Porthos can bear his weight easily, and Aramis lets himself be carried, just this once.

"You're mad," Porthos whispers, and he sounds reverent.

Aramis laughs into Porthos' mouth, kissing him. It tastes like metal and gunpowder, like deliverance.

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for mentions of alcohol/drunkenness, mild violence, some religious imagery, and reckless behavior.
> 
> Title taken from the [Prayer of Saint Francis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prayer_of_Saint_Francis).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [where there is doubt, faith [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325890) by [psikeval](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/pseuds/psikeval), [radiophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/pseuds/radiophile)




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